The only thing I ever felt unconditionally was for him. For Greg, I mean. There were men in my life, of course, because I was a woman of Southern heritage and beautiful by their standards, so I never suffered a lack of admirers. But when it came to unconditional and real love, it was only Greg I could feel that for. And I don't say that because of the way I felt then but the way I feel now instead.

There were so many harsh words between us and I wish I would have been able to throw up my hands and walk away. But I couldn't. I guess that loving him came with that unconditional force of a bond, something that was ours and could never be shared with anyone else. I loved him so dearly, even when I didn't tell him so. Truthfully, I postponed telling him because I knew the moment I did, he'd laugh.

But that was unconditional love at its strongest, the love I have for Greg. There isn't anything else that can compare to it, because even after everything we've had to go through, I still love him just as much as I did after everything that happened, even after the way he responded to my saving him from what I thought was death.

Prompt #006 - “ Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn.” C. S. Lewis.

"I don’t want you to leave."

The office hadn’t been warm five minutes earlier but Stacy felt the air threaten to close in around her, suddenly stifling and oppressive. House was close, too close and not close enough all at once, and she wouldn’t look away from him because that meant admitting he was right, but couldn’t look away because she didn’t want to. Her peripheral vision caught the tensing of his hand as he gripped his cane more tightly, but he didn’t move any closer to her. Nothing at all in the room moved except for Stacy’s heart pounding roughly in her chest, a sensation which had her feeling vaguely off balance.

There is always a moment where a choice is made, one last moment where a person balances the positive and negative aspects of their present situation and takes a step in one direction as opposed to the other. During that moment rushes of clarity should come with aching clearness, and the correct choice for the person should become the most colorful and apparent. But sometimes what choice is correct isn’t what is meant to be, and just because two people want to be together doesn’t mean they can.

Stacy knew all of this. It rose up behind her in a great wave, pressing its impact against her back. But instead of buckling to the pressure she remained still, fixating her eyes on House as though he were her aggressor, her attacker in some twisted game of domination they were playing without being aware of it.

But it wasn’t true. There was no aggression in the weathered and tired face now, only a glimmer of hope amidst the overpowering knowledge and experience of the past and the realization it can and does repeat itself. Dimly she wondered if he cared about that, if he was only coming to her now for one last night before she left forever, or if he couldn’t bear to have her walk out of his life again.

And Stacy knew she had a choice. She could stay or she could leave.

So she chose to leave. The only difference was, she was going to leave with House.

Averting her eyes from his, Stacy glanced down to her desk and closed her fingers around the strap. Shouldering the bag she lifted her head with the intent to meet his eyes but instead was greeted by the familiar scent of aftershave and skin and the feeling of the roughness of his cheek. He didn’t rest his cheek against hers, that would be unlike him, but instead tilted his head downward so when she looked up, her skin brushed against the slight roughness of his. Stacy did not allow her breath to hitch in her throat though her heart did speed up, and met his gaze silently. Slipping into the space between him and her desk she moved towards the door.

His step was easily distinguishable behind her - he would never be a secret agent with the tapping of the cane giving him away - and Stacy was acutely conscious of his proximity to her through both the rate of his breathing and the sound of his pace. The elevator was miraculously waiting for them and she pressed the button for the first floor, stepping inside while feeling her heart skip as she waited to see if he would follow.

He did.

The doors closed and they were alone, with him standing entirely too close behind her, a deliberate infringement on her personal space. His breathing ruffled her hair at the crown, and she could feel his parted lips with each inhale. Her fingers tightened subtly on her purse where it was tucked beneath her arm but Stacy didn’t turn, nor did she step away. It would be admitting defeat, caving to the feeling that was building around them, threatening to suffocate her even in the open air.

When the elevator opened she stepped out, not looking back as she walked to the main doors. They opened silently and the night welcomed them both, the air chilled, and though their breath came out in little puffs of visible air neither one shivered.

Stacy didn’t go to her car and she heard House’s pace falter briefly when she approached the handicapped parking spot where his motorcycle was. She didn’t stop and turned to face him as she came up beside the bike. His eyes were on her as the distance between them closed and she knew he could read her thoughts, the memories that coursed through her blood heatedly despite the night’s cold air.

It was a game they had played, one which ranked up the list with caresses beneath her skirt at restaurants and deliberately provocative motions against his hips when dancing, or the accidental drip of a stray wine droplet from her lips down the creamy arch of her throat. Neither one of them would admit defeat nor would they admit they were testing each other. It was a private challenge to see who could break whose control first, and no one was ever named the victor. Really, it seemed that both sides always benefitted.

House watched Stacy with a lift of his chin, then clipped his cane into the hooks on the side of the motorcycle. Zipping his jacket he pulled on his gloves before reaching for the helmet in the side bag. Her purse was taken from her without touching her hand and stowed in the bag as well, and then House lifted the helmet, placing it securely over her head the way he had the few times she’d agreed to ride with him. It didn’t happen often because she hated motorcycles, thought them dangerous and irresponsible, but there were extenuating circumstances that could sway her mind set for a little while.

His fingers did not brush her skin as he fastened the clasp beneath her chin, and House turned away from her to swing his leg over the motorcycle, settling himself on for the ride. Stacy waited and then followed suit. But instead of sitting in back she slid onto the seat in front of him, her body facing his. It had been his favorite game even though he never admitted it, riding too fast against the night with Stacy’s hips pressed against his and the thrumming purr of the motor beneath his palms in the handles. She didn’t mind it either, but the closest she would come to admitting that was not complaining about the ride afterward. But that had been five years ago, more than that, when these rides were almost commonplace and his touch was familiar and welcome against her skin.

Now with one kiss in a hotel room just a few days before pulsating between them Stacy felt her heart pound as she settled onto the motorcycle in front of him. Her legs slid up and over his, anchoring herself firmly against him, and she was able to touch him without giving away anything. Slipping her arms around him Stacy slid her hands up his back, resting her head against his chest. The rapid pounding of his heart was audible even through the helmet and Stacy shuddered at the revving vibration beneath and against her as House gunned the engine and sped off into the night.

It really was like sex, except without kisses and warm caresses. House controlled the pace, dominating both her and the motorcycle. He went as fast as he wanted and took the turns as sharp as he dared, which forced Stacy to cling to him to avoid losing her grasp. .Her fingers curled into his shirt, splaying across the muscles of his back, and were he to be able to hear her the gasps of her startled breathing would have been audible. He never looked down at her, keeping his eyes focused on the road before them, but Stacy could feel the increase of his heartbeat against her fingertips and that was all she needed to be sure.

They came to a smooth stop outside his home, and House let the motorcycle rest a moment before drawing his hands back from the handlebars and to her hips. He did touch her then, his palms running slowly up the curves of her hips and sides, cupping her breasts and then her shoulders before unclasping the helmet and pulling it over her head.

Stacy’s hair was tousled, hopelessly tangled from being inside the helmet and she probably looked as though they’d already spent hours in bed compensating for the lost time between them. House’s hands cupped her face and slid down to her neck as he drew her in, pressing his parted lips to hers. It didn’t take more than a moment for Stacy to respond, her tongue seeking with and finding his as she dug her fingers more tightly into his back, twisting into the material of his shirt.

Neither one knew how much time they spent there, Stacy’s hips pressed into his and House’s hands caressing up and down her sides as they kissed with the intensity of teenagers wanting to neck in the backseat of a car but choking on the fear of being caught. But after an interminable amount of time House pulled back, pressing a kiss just beneath her lower lip before swinging his leg over to allow him to stand. Stacy rose to her feet as well, and though it was incredibly difficult for him to hurry while being hampered by a cane without appearing too eager, his pace was definitely faster than it had been at the hospital. Then again, so was hers.

When the lights in the entryway clicked on, one thought flared roughly through Stacy’s mind.

Men always want to be a woman's first love. Women like to be a man's last romance. - Oscar Wilde.

Everyone told me back at home that I’d be some big heartbreaker when I got older. The kind of girl that made the boys cry and wish they hadn’t blown their chances before I lost interest. I never believed it even though Mama always said it was true, and I’d give her a good natured smile before going back to my work. But when I got older I started to realize men were noticing me, in the way I hadn’t thought they would.

So yes, there were men in my past. I won’t go into detail about them because flings are flings, and nothing more to be talked about. In truth, there was only one that mattered.

He was completely uncontrollable. And he had, you know, one of those rakish, curved smiles that made you want to arch an eyebrow in bemusement or smile back. What he didn’t expect me to do was both at the same time. I think that was when I fell in love with him.

And yes, our first date was that terrible. I was wishing the night to be over almost the whole time because I’d never met anyone with that sort of...well, lack of etiquette. He was obnoxious and borderline rude, and some of the jokes he cracked were too vulgar to repeat.

But a week after that horrible first date, I was moving in with him and he was making love to me every night, until I fell into his arms and into the most peaceful sleep I’d ever known. And when he touched me then I felt something I hadn’t ever felt before, something that was new and beautiful, and...I loved him. I loved him then and I love him now, in a way that I’d never love anyone else. Not even the man I married, that good and honest man who deserved my love.

And I’d never be able to give it to him. In all truth, I’d be happy being the last woman Greg ever loved. Knowing that...there would never be anyone else.

I wish there were a way to know without coming off as desperate. Because I’m not desperate, nor have I ever been needy. And I won’t start now.

When I was a child and growing up in Mississippi, I never had a problem feeling safe. My mother - Mama - was warm and strong, and I could crawl into Daddy's lap up until the age of eight without feeling any sort of shame about it. It was home, and home was safe. Home was the only place I wanted to be.

But when I grew up and moved away, when law school became my life and world, my sense of security faded into another of need for familiarity. I guess it came from...being so close to my family and then suddenly being pulled away from it. I know that it was of course my choice - Mama would never make me do something I didn't want to - but I knew I had to go on to another, new part of my life.

Being at home was the only security I knew. When I came back from the New England area I refused to take a plane and instead opted for the longer travel time of a train because...well, I never did like flying much. But without any of that really being a factor, I have always known in a raw, certain way that home is home...the only place anyone ever really needs to feel safe. It's just the basic knowledge we're born with, and I've never had to question it.

When I broke it was delicate, a gradual shattering of ideas, hopes, and created dreams we had conjured up together falling around to break against my tears. He didn’t notice because he was asleep. We had made love hours before and then I had realized it wasn’t making love anymore, it was having sex. Somewhere during all of this lust had become love, and that change had been welcome but when love faded back into lust, into nothing more than a primal, physical attraction that could come from hookers and one night stands, I knew that we were over. It was just a matter of time before it became official.

After I knew he was asleep, after his breathing deepened to a rhythmic pulsation I had become accustomed to I slid from the blankets and the bed, wrapping his shirt around me before padding in my bare feet down the staircase.

The coffee was warm, so warm in fact it was quite scalding and I burned my tongue purposely so I wouldn’t have to think about the physical pain of my heart in my chest. I actually clutched at the crease of the shirt above my heart and pressed my palm against the skin beneath. It was still beating, and I found that more amusing than before. More amusing than the fights that had been over nothing had been was the fact my fragile heart could still beat, despite the fact he had broken it. I knew it would heal one time or another, but for the moment I just marveled at its own power.

She'd been at his side for hours as he drifted in and out of aching pain, watching helplessly as each attack seemed to weaken him that much more. So few times he was actually able to speak to her coherently, for the agony he was feeling was so great it inhibited his logic and coherence. Had he been able to, Stacy worried he might have thrown something or hit one of the nurses that came in to check the readings on the machines she didn't understand.

That was the benefit of law, Stacy realized. With law it was right or wrong, even while subject to interpretation. She knew what was going to happen before it even started. But now, at Greg’s bedside, her straining fingers holding to his unresponsive ones tightly, she didn’t like one of the possible outcomes this could lead to. Because if the pain didn’t ease it was going to kill him. And she was going to have to bury the only man she’d ever loved in a casket on a rainy afternoon in New Jersey.

It wasn’t going to happen. Vehement determination shot through her veins and Stacy clutched his hand so tightly it hurt her to do so. She wasn’t going to let him die, even though he was too stubborn to do the very thing that would save his life.

When they had become more intimately involved, the prospect of neither one of them having any close family had led to Stacy becoming Greg’s health care proxy, and he becoming hers in turn. Never once had these rights needed exercised until now.

Stacy had never wanted to defy his wishes, but she couldn’t let him die. Tears brimmed over her closed eyelashes and she lowered his hand to rest on the blankets.

I don’t regret it. He wants me to, but I won’t. I can’t, I refuse to regret saving his life. Even now, over five years later, I’m haunted at night by the ghostly thoughts of his face telling me it’s my fault, his eyes narrowed in harsh, grating disdain even while closing his ears to my responses. It doesn’t matter anymore as to why I did it, only that I did it.

To him.

But he was dying. I watched the pain threaten to choke his life from his straining grasp, wiped the perspiration and tears from his eyes while letting my own roll freely down my skin. And when Lisa sat down opposite me in a semi quiet waiting room to present me with a solution I hadn’t been ready to expect, I found it was a strange and blessed gift. Lisa knew what I would say, and she knew what Greg would want me to do. What he would adamantly tell me to do - which would be what he wanted all along.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let him die.

And I don’t care anymore if he ever forgives me, I won’t let that be the regret in my life. I won’t regret saving the first man I ever loved from a death, from something that would have taken him away from me forever.

It did take him from me. But at least he’s still alive. And he can live anywhere he wants, any place at all that he so chooses. Even if it isn’t with me, I won’t be sorry because at least he’s still alive. And I can wake up every morning from now on without him, comforted by that knowledge.

The only nemesis I ever knew was failure. I hated it more than anything else, and was so opposed to failing at anything in the world that I destroyed myself several times to try and avoid that very thing. When I came back with less than perfection I forced myself to correct it and move onward.

But that might sound really trivial, especially with my line of work in consideration. When you're given the chance to change the world in some way, it becomes the most important thing. You begin to wonder what you'd do without it, and then you realize just how fragile your world is.

It doesn't matter as much as I make it out to, but really it's the only true conflict I've had in my life, being wrong. I hate it, failing and being wrong and everything that comes with it...and that's the one thing we're never able to fully right. It's something that comes as a physical handicap, and if we were to remove it then the world wouldn't be a level playing field any longer.

He didn’t slam the door because I had badgered some sense of eloquence into his head, but I did hear the pounding footsteps down the stairs. They weren’t as fluent as they had been, and my heart ached with a raw pang every time the cane sounded against the floor. It was like nails driving into a coffin, a coffin that could be walked around in and existed in. Being buried alive, and still being forced and allowed to live.

From the bed I drew my legs to my chest, pressing my face into my knees and let myself feel the pain that had been suppressed for weeks. I didn’t care if he hated me, I had done what I had to do. He was alive, and that was what mattered the most. Over and over I repeated this until it became my mantra, pounding its existence and presence into me every waking moment of a day. When we made love I could feel his aggression, the penned up rage he wanted to release but never would, not on me. And though I knew he never would, there were moments when I wished the warm, possessive hands would grip tight enough to leave bruises on my skin, that his kiss would be so hard it would hurt, that he might fuck me so hard I’d bleed as we fell asleep together, entwined in bed as we always had. And if that happened, which I knew it never would, in the dark of the night I would let my pain seep through the physical injuries, dulling the realization I had shattered the trust of the only man I’d ever loved.

I could still hear the cane downstairs as he moved about, and my heart hurt more with each step. We were over, I knew, the pieces of the life we had scattered like tattered photographs in the wind. A few days had broken the world that was ours and while we acted the part of lovers the storm building between us was going to break free. I was going to fight and so was he, but we were going to be fighting separate battles, and regardless of whether or not we won, both sides can’t win the war.

I wanted to strew the fragments of my shattered heart over the bed like rose petals, scatter them along the staircase to lead to the bed where I’d sleep forever, smothering myself in the scent of musk and him and our lovemaking, never wanting to turn away from those precious memories.

Even as I think this I know I am far too strong, and once again I will turn over, wind myself in the covers and sleep until he returns to me. And in a hour’s time the bed will dip, the cane will be leaned against the wall, and his arms will encircle me from behind, strong and warm once more. But tonight I will not sleep. Instead I will wait for him to come and savor that embrace for the precious thing it is, memorizing the way his fingertips graze my stomach and how his stubble burns welcome patterns on my back.

Because one day he will realize we are broken, and we cannot be fixed. But for now, for at least one more night, we will be broken together.

I could feel him watching me, the way he had been for the past twenty minutes. And when I moved I accented the rhythm in my hips, the smile on my face coming with far more ease than it had been for months. When was the last time I’d embraced this emotion, given myself up to sensuality and the possibility of something more than the pleasure of a cases’s win?

It had been too long, and I didn’t give a damn if it technically should never happen again.

The night air outside was cool on my skin and I embraced that, too, succumbing to the coolness and letting the atmosphere motivate my walk. He was behind me - I had seen him get up to leave when I had - and he was following me, but not with the usual stalking grace men tried to exhibit when pursuing a woman. No, he was walking easily and not giving a damn who saw him freely following the sharply dressed woman down the street. Maybe he figured that if she felt threatened she’d stop and scream, make a scene and he’d use that confusion to get away.

But I smiled and shook my head, coming upon the familiar crosswalk that led back to the apartment. This was his favorite game, and I played it willingly.

His strong arms slid easily around my hips and I grinned against the stubble on his cheek which he was so eloquently nuzzling into my throat.

“Ready to go home?” he murmured, his breath hot against my ear.

“I don’t know about that,” I purred in response, pressing my hips back against his own. “After all, you’re a stranger. We’ve only just met.”

He tightened his grasp on my hips and I could feel his glare against my temple. “Stacy...”

The sun was warm against her skin, and Stacy turned her palms upwards to meet the rays of the sun. Spinning once, her head fell back and a few cool droplets of dew played against her skin. The day was beautiful, still in its morning hours and one of the exact reasons she loved Mississippi as she did. Really, there was nothing like being home.

“Stace!”

Oblivious to the voice calling her, Stacy slipped the sandals from her feet and waded barefoot into the lake. Several feet away a man and woman were nestled in a small rowboat, their laughter punctuating the soft morning glow. Stacy laughed with them and waded two steps further into the water, the cool lake bottom giving gently beneath her feet.

It was just as it used to be when she was a child. Quiet, serene, and peaceful, with no sense of disturbance anywhere to be found. Nothing to shatter the piece, except for that voice shouting her name.

“Stace! Stacy!”

“What?” Stacy finally replied, but her voice was quiet and muffled when she did. Eyes opening she realized she wasn’t back home in Mississippi, but in the quiet darkness of the bedroom. Greg’s arms were around her and the voice she’d heard had undoubtedly been his. Rubbing a hand across her eyes she looked up into his face and blinked at the concern there.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, peering at him intently in the dimness. Greg didn’t reply immediately, instead reached over and clicked on the bedside light. The bottle of Vicodin gleamed mockingly in the darkness and Stacy turned her gaze away from it and back to his face.

“You were crying,” Greg said softly, lifting a hand to caress the tears from her cheek. It was one of the rare moments now he showed affection, and Stacy closed her eyes at the wave of aching tenderness that pulsated through her. “Were you having a nightmare?”

“I don’t remember.” It was a lie, but he’d never have to know that. Stacy said the statement so calmly that the tears stopped flowing from her eyes and Greg seemed almost satisfied with that statement. The key word, however, in all of this was almost. Because Gregory House didn’t like being proven wrong, even when there was a possibility he might be. He didn’t accept it, and Stacy knew he wouldn’t this time.

But she didn’t want to talk about it. Stacy didn’t want to talk about the dream she’d been having of her hometown, of the warm embrace of childhood and the silly fantasy that she and Greg could live happily ever after in peace after the infarction had happened. No, it was over, it was just a matter of when it was going to end.

Tears pooled in her eyes again but Stacy hid them away by burrowing her face against his neck. “It’s nothing, honey,” she whispered against his throat. “Go back to sleep.”

And after a few moments the only sound in the room was his deep, rhythmatic breathing.

He was abrasive, obnoxious, borderlining on annoying, and came on much too strong the first time we met. I remember the quicksilver smile that cuaght my attention and the arrogant wink he tossed my way when he knew he had my attention. It was irritating, but I went on that date with him anyway. And a week later, I moved in and we began five years that were some of the most memorable of my life.

I didn't trust him at first. I had to later on, because the thought of not trusting the man you're living with is absolutely outrageous, at least to the child, being myself, of a Mississippi family who based their entire relationship upon trust, love, and faith. I suppose that's why I chose the athiestic path in religion, because I couldn't do what Lisa and my other friends had done in placing their faith in something they couldn't see.

But as I said, at first I didn't trust Greg at all. I thought he was the type of man to sail from one relationship to another without regard as to what it was going to cost in the end, and I certainly didn't think we'd ever get past that speculation of mine that I had been possessing. I didn't think his kisses would be enough to soothe me to sleep at night, and I never thought the caress of his uncallused palms would be what smoothed away the tension from my exhausted muscles at night.

I don't know when I began to trust him. But sometime during the years we spent together, I came to trust Gregory House more than I trusted any other person in my years of life. I didn't expect it, didn't even want it, because trusting someone means putting your heart and feelings out for them to walk all over as they might so choose.

But it was the one choice I didn't make in my life that was objective. I loved him, so I trusted him. It wasn't the most logical reasoning, but at the time it was all I had.

I didn't want to go back. I couldn't go back anymore, not after this. While I knew he'd never raise a hand to strike me, this was almost worse. It was worse, coming home to the same arguing day after day, knowing he'd never be able to forgive me for the choice I’d made. What he was refusing to grasp was the reality of my having no other choice. There was nothing else I could have done. I couldn’t take the risk with his life that he was willing to.

This time, I hadn’t bothered with a suitcase. No, the overnight bags I had packed full of things from the fight earlier in the week were still in the back seat, at the same angle I had tossed them before. I didn’t think I’d need to use them, but I knew I wasn’t being foolish in preparing them. I didn’t want the best thing in my life to come to an end, but that choice wasn’t mine anymore.

I felt the tires skid atop the slick pavement on the road and a curse escaped my lips as I fought for control once more. Clenching my jaw against what I knew was the beginning of wracking sobs that would last the course of the night, I made a vow I wouldn’t cry until I was alone in a hotel room hours and miles away from here.

Miles away from Princeton, the hospital, and everything I had ever cared about. As far away from the first - and only, so far - man I’d ever loved.

I didn’t want to love again after this. Not if this was going to be the way it was going to end when I cared this much. Dimly, I wondered if it was raining far away in Baltimore, the way it was here. I wondered where else it was raining, or if it was just here that the drops were falling and trying to drive me back and away.

But this time, I wasn’t stopping. I had to keep going, even though I was leaving my broken heart in the bed .. next to Greg.

My greatest triumph? The easy answer to that would be claiming it as my law degree. And that wouldn't be anything small to snarl at, either, because it isn't something a lot of people are able to do. Sure, you start out basic introduction to law classes with expectations that are set higher for yourself than you ever knew possible, and you think so positively and with such confidence that failure doesn't even seem to be a conceivable option.

And getting the degree is nothing to frown at. Because as you watch the people around you flounder, struggle, and finally drop from the class they just can't understand, you realize that you might have that happen the next go around. That you might not be able to handle everything you think you can .. and that it might ultimately end up being the end for you.

But I didn't let that be the case. No, I wanted this .. I wanted it more than anything. I wanted a lifestyle where I could be as independent as I damn well pleased without having to answer to anyone - or any man, for that matter. It was what I wanted for myself, and it's what I made sure I got. There isn't anything shameful in a woman being alone, it just shows the way the world has evolved since earlier times.

I don't really know if that's right, to consider that my greatest triumph. I've done so much in my life that hasn't revolved around my career that it seems foolish not to mention it. I can think of the greatest thing I've ever done, that isn't hard to do, but it wasn't a triumph. It was a horrific trial that I don't wish upon anyone in all the world. No one should ever have to worry about the life of someone they love being threatened due to a decision they just won't make correctly. No one should ever have to watch someone they care about suffer in inexplicable ways, hour after hour, and be powerless to do anything they want you to in order to stop it.

It was the hardest decision of my life, and I'm not sorry I made it. But that's not a triumph. No, it wasn't a triumph at all.

I've always been the black sheep Athiest in my family, so I never believed in any sort of past life regression. It doesn't seem logical, to be honest. Where do people come up with these ideas, that your soul or whatever form of existance and awareness we have existed before? Life doesn't seem to be about that. It's more that we get one chance to do what we can with what we're given, and then that's it.

I guess that sounds pretty dismal. But that's all I've ever had to go on with life and the afterlife, and everything that's tied into it. I don't think about it because I just don't believe in it. I never had a reason to, even though I was surrounded by extensively religious family members who liked to pour their beliefs and ideals onto my cereal each morning when I was a child.

It gets tiring after awhile, having someone try to make you believe what you don't want to comprehend. But this is a sensitive subject, and I don't know what more I can say on it without getting excessively biased and irritated.

It still felt like home, Princeton. At least, at times like these Stacy could delude herself into thinking that either everything was all right or everything would somehow manage to be all right. Shouldering her laptop's case she made quick to cross the street, glancing from side to side out of sheer force of habit. For the time being she was staying at a hotel about two blocks from the hospital, and thankfully there were advancements made as far as hotel amenities went. Planning to take full advantage of the DVD player hooked to the room's thirty-seven inch television, Stacy pushed open the door to the familiar video store.

The bell above the door chimed softly and Stacy stepped across the threshold, taking in the nostalgic scent of microwavable popcorn, bubblegum, and cardboard. Behind the counter a teenage girl was chatting with two other girls appearing to be in the process of paying, and Stacy laughed to herself as she moved down one of the rows of movies.

"They could be here all night," she mused under her breath, running her nail across the air above a row of films. She couldn't count how many times Greg had brought her here on a Friday night, not wanting to endure the hoardes of teenagers that frequented the multiplex. But this had been a suitable alternative, and Stacy had never minded the privacy.

I don't think I ever drew up the courage to tell you how much you really did help me through the end of my and Greg's relationship. For awhile, during all that chaos, I thought it was possible you'd find a reason to turn away from me. And I really wouldn't have blamed you. I still can't believe that Lisa (Cuddy) speaks to me, after so many things that happened. But it looks like I misjudged the two of you, and while this is incredibly pathetic of me to be babbling on about, I'm very grateful for that friendship.

What happened between Greg and I was inevitable. He was never going to be able to forgive me for what I did, and he would never be able to understand I didn't have any other choice. I could either do it his way or save his life without question. And I loved him too much to let anything happen to him that I could prevent. It was what I had to do.

I know that the relationships I built up before the incident will never again be the same, and that's just something I have to come to terms with over time. But in case you were wondering, I still miss you and the things we used to do together. When we'd go for drinks after I'd win a case, or park in the car outside my apartment and trade horrible date stories. You were a friend .. and you still are.

It wasn’t even a restaurant, not really. A small hole in the wall surrounded by dismal, collapsing apartment buildings and streets littered with trash and graffiti was hardly a restaurant. It might have been more of one if the food had been acceptable but hours later I could still taste the grease in my mouth and the acidic backwash of poorly made iced tea.

Mortified wasn’t a strong enough word to describe it. I was horrified, completely robbed of any sense of delight I might have felt prior to this date actually taking place. I had actually been flattered when he asked me out, a doctor nonetheless, and an accomplished one at that. It was supposed to be a welcome break from the rigorous routine of my working week, and I hadn’t held it up to be anything more or less than that.

But this? This was humiliating. And as the night drew to a blessed close I realized that not once had we so much as shared an actual conversation. Any dialogue between us had been about the service at the restaurant or in regard to what to order since some things on the menu didn’t come across as edible.

He didn’t kiss me goodnight, only said the usual noncommittal line of “I’ll call you tomorrow,” which had never sounded so sweet to my ears. And as I let myself back into my apartment I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, realizing that I’d never have to see Greg House again.

A week later, I was in love with him and moved into his home. Who knew a first date could be so horrible and yet lead to so much?

Topic 32: Therapists say that the best way to work through unresolved issues is to write a letter and say all the things you need to say to the person you are having conflict with. This can be a letter you decide to send, but more often than not it will be a letter that no one but you will read. We want you to write a letter to someone, anyone, and say whatever it is you need to say. You can be completely honest in this letter because most likely, you will probably decide not to send it.

Dear Greg,

I love you. You arrogant, obnoxious jerk, I still love you. I wish I didn't. I still wish that the same way I did when we stood on the roof of the hospital and I faced all my demons in your eyes. No matter how many years have passed, I just can't seem to let things be as they are and leave it all behind. I'm still haunted at night, even when I'm laying beside Mark in the silence. I toss and turn and fight against insomnia, which is a vicious creature to combat on its own. And on the nights that are worse than others I get up and stare at my phone in my hand, tracing the outline of the keypad and thinking about how easy it would be to just call you and say .. anything.

But I never do. I never do because the last time I saw you, everything you said made it abundantly clear that we were finished. I was willing to leave Mark, to leave my life in Shorthill behind in the past and come back to Princeton to be with you. To be with you, you jerk .. the same jerk that drove me away with arguments and words that were never meant to be said.

You told me that you couldn't change, and no matter what you think I don't want you to. You never have to change for me .. our first date was awful, and I still somehow ended up moving into your apartment the next week. I can't believe it's over .. but there it is. Because I'm still sitting up at two in the morning with my husband sleeping in the next room .. and I'm still thinking of Baltimore and the night that followed it.